A Wild Bear Chase
by Sefiriot
Summary: "Find this man, he said. Get me my bears, he said. Mad Pelagius' teeth! I didn't sign up for this kind of shit!" For Arliene Aswyth, sometime mercenary, courier (and occasional smuggler), it seemed like just another humdrum locate-and-retrieve assignment. Too bad for her it didn't stay that way. The rest of the world might just disagree however. Pt. 3 of the Dragon's Light series
1. Proem

Index Librorum Prohibitorum Imperatum Tamrielis 4E 175 **Item 1009**

Cerwen Ilötèania, _Lux draconis : Ursus venor_

Status: _Anathema_

One (1) copy may be preserved by the Bureau for use in legal proceedings against the authors and publishers of the prohibited text(s). All others are to be seized and destroyed on forfeiture.

By order of the Imperial Bureau for Approved Writings, this work is condemned for the following reasons:

Depiction of the worship of Tiber Septim anon Talos, which practice is forbidden in the Imperium and all its Domains;

Heresy of the 8th order in condoning the worship of Talos as a _Ninth Divine_

Multiple instances of discussion and/or mention of the prohibited and anathema organization known as _the Blades_

Depiction of a public figure in poor light and false representation of historical truths.

This book is part of a series. The other works in the series, and published versions which precede and succeed this work, are also condemned (c.f. Items 1008 -1011 of this Index). Usual penalties for possession, distribution, reproduction, and advertisement of same apply.

* * *

 **Foreword**

Dear Constant Reader,

The reign of the Dragonblood Emperors have been the subject of many popular works of fiction, unsurprising considering that the rulers of the Septim line have given us some of the most colourful episodes of history. From the conquests of the first Emperor, the blessed Tiber Septim, who is now enshrined in all Tamriel's provinces as the Divine Talos; to the terrible Civil War of the Broken Diamonds and the tragedy of Kintyra, dramatised by Alsten Song-Weaver in his _Lay of Fallen Snow_ ; and the bloody aftermath of the long, peaceful reign of the Empress Katariah; the aspiring historian and novelist finds no shortage of subject matter.

The lives of the later Septims are no less colourful, compared to their better known predecessors: Uriel V and his valiant if doomed attempts at the invasion of Akavir would make good fodder for any number of volumes. Research into the reign and governmental policies of Morihatha Septim, namesake of Her Cyrodiilic Majesty and Imperial Splendour, the Empress Morihatha II Mede, Blessed of Heaven, Empress, Mother and Daughter of Emperors, Inspiration of Faith and Safeguard of Justice All the Gods be with Her, has of course seen a marked resurgence in interest. Still, it is the events of the lives of the last two Septim Emperors — Uriel VII and Martin — that have formed the impetus to seize pen and paper for so many novelists and historians of our time.

Taken together, their rule over Imperial Tamriel has produced more history, more romance, than any other period; excepting the Interregnum of the Second Era, just before the Tiber Wars. Heroes arose again and again to save the Empire in its darkest hours: their shining example lives on in the popular consciousness. Whether or not they succeeded is still an open question, a century after the death of the last ruling Septim.

The Imperial Historian Praxis Sarcorum's recounting of the received history surrounding the Oblivion Crisis summarizes the "and then, and then, and then" of events, well enough for those only interested in the skin of what happened. For those who desire the meat of the events, the official accounts must prove unsatisfying indeed! While the book's barrenness of contextual details is expected, reliant as it is on the meagre official sources alone, the lack of detail and analysis should be a cause of reproach against what is otherwise a serviceable text.

I, personally, found that I could not be wholly satisfied with what the official sources deign to include in their vision of historical truth. Thus I have sought out those sources _extra muralis_ of Imperial approval; their side of the story too deserves a place in the sun. Whether or not the contributions of those sources have made for a better tale, let you, Constant Reader, be the judge.

Cerwen of Ilötèa  
1st Midyear, 4E 109.


	2. Chapter 1

I hate surprises. They do nothing except interrupt all civilised things like orderly schedules, meals and sleep, which to seasoned travellers like yours truly, are the gifts of the Divines.

My sister and I had just caught up with the main troupe after settling some untidy business left behind out in Morrowind. The affair was simple, the resolution anything but, the journey back home miserable for various reasons. Naturally, after all that bother, we were looking forward to spending some downtime in the shops and inns of Imperial City.

Getting called in immediately on arrival by our boss Aemilius "Sal" Salconis, of _Aemilius's Exotic Wonders_ was not welcome, and not likely to be a happy occasion — meetings with our boss usually meant trouble of some sort we'd have to charm, weasel or strongarm into a solution.

A meeting this soon after our return was unprecedented: the troupe surely hadn't been back here long enough to stir up the sort of trouble that might need us to settle it, unless of course we'd managed to recruit some new and impressively gifted troublemaker. Then again, troublemakers didn't tend to last long in Sal's employ. Sal was fairly good to his employees, even if he was somewhat tightfisted about the finances; but he drew the line at noisy, visible trouble. As for our situation — we normally had at least one day off after coming back from a job, our contracts protected that customary break. Sal knew it and approved of the notion, so why was he sending for us now?

I looked at Clesyne, who looked back at me, just as bewildered at this turn of events. Time to see what our lord and master wanted us to tidy up for him now.

* * *

I ran through a mental listing of all the food and drinks I remembered consuming in the past day once, twice and again. In the end, I had to conclude to my lasting sorrow, that one, I'd just heard what I did; and two, I was truly neither drunk, drugged or otherwise impaired (despite any assertions that might've been made to the contrary) — only bone tired and grouchy.

Well, it _had_ been days on the roads between Vvardenfell and Imperial City, hardly a pleasure trip even in the best conditions. "Bone tired and grouchy" just covered the essential basics of what I was feeling. Right now my deepest wish was a hot meal and a soft bed, and Sal's continual talking was _in my way_.

Still, no excuse not to be professional, as Clesyne's elbow in my ribs rightly reminded me to stop looking like a landed fish. I asked my boss to repeat himself, rubbing my fingers against the Amulet of Julianos within my pocket: Logic shield me from any hallucinations courtesy of Sheogorath!

"Uhm Sal… Did I just listen you wrong and that you want us to get two dancing hares?" Huh. Bugger. That wasn't quite what I'd wanted to come out of my mouth. I looked over at Clesyne in frustration. Of all the times for my little problem to crop up again…

See, you only asked Sal — oh, politely, to be sure — to repeat himself at your own peril. When the boss said jump, you didn't ask him how high; you had better have on a Jump spell and be at least 20 feet up before he said anything further. The Imperial, or more precisely, Nibenean, was a sharp dealing, fast talking, smooth operator even for his people. The only time you might catch him off guard would be at the inn tables, an empty wine glass in hand and a pretty barmaid doing her best to fill it up again faster than he could drain it — even then you'd probably be best off counting your fingers after any deal. The one thing Sal absolutely hated, apart from being cheated (or running out of brandy), was having to slow down to let those of us slower on the uptake keep up with him. Man had a short temper too.

This time around he simply looked at me, exasperated, then tolerant; must've been a good day despite his current temper, eh. "Bears, Arliene, b-e-a-r-s. You _did_ understand me yes? Come now girl," I bristled a bit at being called 'girl', even as he smirked, knowing that would get my goat. Damn him. "I know perfectly well you can keep up with anyone, no matter if you sound like Kynareth's own blessed calf every Middas and twice on Sundas! I said, I want you to go pick up a dancing bear I acquired. Two, actually."

Dancing bear, plural. Bears. Right. Oh Julianos save us. For all his virtues, Sal had an optimistic streak a mile wide that was irrepressible. I put on my best dice-playing face — I wasn't about to land myself in trouble with Sal if I could help it. Clesyne took over the talking at this point. "Where in Oblivion did you get these — miraculous — dancing bears?"

"I made an agreement with Frothi Iron-Fists out of Winterhold for a pair of actual, trained, dancing snow bears. None of that bullcrap with Command Creature spells and Illusioning rot. See, 'twas a deal he made me in Chorrol about a year ago now, before we went into High Rock, since he owed me a favour," he paused for breath here, the spots of colour in his sallow complexion marking his agitation, "and the sneak swore he had a pair of these beauties for sale, he was training them up to dance, and wouldn't I like 'em?" Sal's half-Nord heritage and early life in Skyrim was showing, as it often did when he was in a temper about something.

Clesyne and I looked at each other as Sal continued on his harangue. The idea sounded more than ludicrous, really, but who knows what new things can be done under the sun every day? I tuned back into what Sal was going on about quickly, lest I be caught napping by the boss. "… that Frothi I know is a dab hand with the training and the teaching of wild beasts, and if he says he could train bears to dance, well I might believe he could; so I agreed. _Oh yes_ , says I then, and we struck a deal on the spot, the pair of bears for 4000 silver coins, half up front, and the remaining 2000 bulls on receipt of the beasts, which he was to have sent from Winterhold. Now I've waited and been patient, but mayhap it's been too long and my friend Frothi needs a reminder of what he still owes me. By Zenithar I swear I shan't be cheated! You find him, and get me those bears."

"Where do we find Frothi and his bears?" Clesyne asked, straight to the point as usual.

"Are we even sure those bears can, ah, perform?" I immediately realised my question was a stupid one to ask, even as Clesyne shot a quick glare my way. On second thought, my asking about their purported abilities just sounded… wrong.

"To Oblivion with whether or not they can perform; in any case I've now got a customer here who wants real Skyrim snow bears, and we'll by the Nine GET HIM SOME. AM I UNDERSTOOD?" Gods but Sal could bellow when the mood took him.

"Frothi is a Nord, obviously. He's a tall one, around 6' 7". Blue eyes like just about every other Nord out there, and his hair looks like dull greasy ditchwater, smells about as bad too. I'll be amazed if he's taken his annual bath before now. Oh, and he's got an evil looking scar down the right cheek, a really jagged red thing, starting from above his right eye. I remember when he got that — we thought he'd be likely to lose it then, all that blood coming from his face and him screaming like a boar in a bush; and may he yet lose that eye if he's cheated me!" Sal glared at us both. We hastily made commiserating noises about the kind of misfortunes that ought befall anyone with the guts to try and "cheat me! Aemilius Salconius! How dare he! Cheat _me_!"

"Now last I heard of him, he was in Bravil, dicing, whoring and drinking like he normally does when he comes into Cyrodiil, that scummy flea-ridden _hrafnasueltir_ , about three weeks back now. So _get out there and find him and my bears!_ "

No help for it. Clesyne and I made agreeing noises and got out. Ducking out the tent flaps, she and I looked at each other, any hopes of a nice rest and shopping gone.

"Snow bears, he said?" I asked my sister, still not daring to believe what I'd just heard. "The type that up about 8 feet tall on their hind legs, are notoriously fierce, ttt…territorial and kill with a single paw swipe; _those_ bears?"

Clesyne made an agreeing noise, her brow furrowed over in thought; then went "huuh?" before turning her head to look at me, startled, before chiding me with "Bears don't reach 8 feet tall, even when standing, silly. Don't make it sound worse than it really is."

"Is Sal _cck_ -completely inss- _sane_?" I couldn't help but think this job was going be worse trouble than the one time we ran a consignment of limeware across the border…

My sister shrugged. "The boss hath commanded, we peons must needs do. As usual."

We had a very cold trail to follow and not much information to go on, apart from Sal's rather colourful description. The only sure things I could see in my — and Clesyne's — future was a lot of cold hard beds, more horseback riding on backcountry trails, mud, rain, heat and camp food in all its inedible glory. Joy.

Have I mentioned how much I HATE surprises?

* * *

We didn't set off after Frothi _immediately_ , of course. Indeed we would have to, and soon — certainly no later than tomorrow afternoon or the day after that at the outside, or Sal would likely be wroth; but we would have at least one good night's sleep in a bed before we were back on the road again. We also needed to replenish our supplies and repair our armour and weapons, which had seen a fair bit of use in recent days. All these necessities ensured our steps were turned towards the Market District.

Securing a room in the _Merchants' Inn_ took no time at all. Velus Hosidius, the publican was glad to see us again, semi-regular customers that we were. He hadn't the time to linger in small talk however; it was Morndas and nearly evening, when a crowd of the City's merchants were due in for their dinners: he was justly distracted from potential gossip preparing for the evening crowd. After a short discussion, I left Clesyne tucking into a large bowl of piping hot fish and barley pottage, with fresh wheat bread, sweet wine vinegar in herb dipping oil and a soft cheese to go with it all.

My next destination was to the weaponry store next door. I was halfway to the door, when a muffled exclamation came from behind me, accompanied by the clatter of utensils on tableware. The sound made me grin and shake my head as I turned around to confirm my suspicions.

Sure enough, Clesyne had been bolting her meals, again — and getting her mouth burned, yet again. She should've remembered, really — the food here was hot, in more than one sense. Velus's cook, Zenithar bless her, kept a firm hand on her kitchen and its staff: all meals were to be served fresh and hot. Uncommonly for an Imperial, she employed peppers in many of her dishes with a liberal hand alongside the more common herbs, firmly believing that it aided the digestion and warded off illness. That might be true, and the results surprisingly tasty, particularly for spice-lovers who didn't mind some heat in their food, or the gastronomically adventurous. For the unprepared, or those who preferred less exciting cuisine however, it must feel very much like sticking one's tongue into fire after a few swallows, particularly when the dish in question was hot from the pot.

Watching Clesyne flailing and diving, half-blinded by tears for the closest mug of water or phousca, I couldn't repress the fit of giggles that erupted. Clesyne must've heard me somehow, even over the increasing noise in the inn, or perhaps it was sisterly intuition, because the scowl she shot directly at me looked truly devilish, her red face and tearing eyes adding to the impressiveness of the glare.

I quickly darted out the door and decided to stay out a little later than I'd said earlier. My twin could handle the usual bartering and haggling for food items with Velus just fine without me there to get in the way of her charms — assuming her tongue hadn't gotten burnt enough to make talking a chore by the time she finished dinner.

I simply couldn't resist one last dig while on my way out however. "Tell Velus to save me a bowl of that, Clesyne! It looks _delicious_!"

* * *

Now normally, between myself and my sister, we could just about manage the majority of basic repairs to our armour and weapons — knocking out dents, polishing and sharpening our swords, replacing leather straps and suchlike, but it'd been a while since our gear had seen proper care by a smith. _A Fighting Chance_ was — and still is reputed one of the best places in the City for acquiring weapons, blades in particular; and its Redguard proprietor, Rohssan, well known for her talents with mending and creating armour. Her wares and services did not come cheap, but one gets what one pays for.

I'll admit here that my interest wasn't purely in seeing our gear fixed though. Rohssan was at the top of my list of friends, what few of them I had left here. I've been proud to call her friend for the better part of a decade now, and it _had_ been a while since we'd last seen each other.

I entered the shop to find Rohssan behind the long wooden counter that dominated the trading floor, clad in her usual iron cuirass, leather greaves and boots. Rather more precisely, I heard Rohssan was within before I actually opened the door; hammering steel and iron was noisy work easily heard through stout doors, and my friend's usual gear was hardly suited to silent motion. I'd asked her once why she felt the need to go armed and armoured in her own shop, considering that Cyrodiil's summers could be ferociously hot. Her response had been a hearty laugh. "Doesn't every store need advertising to get its name out there? I'm my own best display, see?" Oh indeed, Rohssan cut a fine figure in armour; steel shortsword by her side, striding around the Market District every night browsing the displays, talking with passersby — and not so incidentally showing off the beautiful fit and good quality of her armour and blade.

Given the Market District's proximity to the Arena and its crowds, one could be sure that there were many interested eyes following her on her rounds, and not all of the focus was on the armour either. My friend might be getting up there in years now, even if her Redguard heritage kept the fine web of lines around eyes and mouth from showing too obviously. Her work however had shaped her body as finely as her hands wrought armour links. Men deep in their cups around the City were known to remark how her silver-grey hair complemented her armour.

"Arliene! Welcome! It's been nearly a full season since I last saw you, you little rascal. Where've you been?" Her dog, who was down on the shop floor, whined and thumped his tail in greeting. I took the dog's presence to mean that business must've been slow this evening — the mutt was a fierce animal who didn't take kindly to strangers despite his growing age, displayed in his greying tan coat. It'd taken me nearly a year (and several nasty bites) before he'd warmed up to my presence. Rohssan generally kept him confined to the living quarters upstairs and out of mischief, despite many jokes about how she should set her dog on some irritating customer. Clesyne wouldn't go into Rohssan's shop for much the same reason: my sister has a fear of dogs, particularly the larger breeds.

" _Little_? I'm not _little_ , dammit! I'm a perfectly re-ress-peckable height for a Breton!" Really, my remote ancestors were highly inconsiderate way back when passing down their bloodlines. Would it have ruined things to at least have passed down more of that merish height, and spared their descendants persistent neck aches forevermore from craning upwards to look at most other humans and mer? "Anyway, to answer your question — here, there, lots of p-places elsewhere. Morrowind is fairly large — more so than Cyrodiil, you know."

Rohssan snorted. "Oh yes, and full of trouble, as usual. News is Houses Dres and Hlaalu have given up slavery and freed the beastfolk." I nodded. "Good! Still, I can't imagine that went over well with the other Great Houses?"

We spent an hour exchanging personal gossip and going over the latest news and rumours out of that troubled province; even after centuries under the influence of the Empire, the vast majority of that province retained its own traditions, laws and culture, paying only lip service to the Imperial rule. A wild and beautiful land in its own way, as harsh and unforgiving as the Dunmer themselves could be. And if I was tired enough that I garbled my words in the telling — well, Rohssan was used to it, and could understand me well enough, belike.

It's a rare thing that I don't have to repeat myself for the sake of anyone listening. Rare, precious, warming, to speak and be heard and understood, accepted so easily. A friend like that is hard come by, particularly in the case of a Redguard befriending a Breton. The gods witness that our peoples have never really been very friendly.

My friend clucked at the state of my chainmail cuirass. It was admittedly a sorry sight: a great number of the links were broken, dented or outright missing, the leather unders ripped in places. "Great Leki! What did you _do_ to your armour?"

"Me? Nnn-nothing. Except have a cliff racer or three happen to it while we were on our way home."

There'd actually been a whole swarm of them descending out of the clear blue sky, right as we were about to come in sight of the Imperial fort in Septim's Gate Pass; Clesyne and I had been hard pressed to get away from the lot. My twin had not been wearing armour that day; she lost her favourite shirt, and very nearly her life, when her shield spells shattered under repeated dives from the flying hellspawn. I'd had to throw myself atop her, covering the both of us with my shield and tumbling into the midst of a bunch of nearby rocks to ward off a second and third pass from the nasty buggers. Thank Magnus and Kynareth for Restoration spells and potions.

I'd managed to get us closer to the fort, half-carrying poor Clesyne, ducking behind rocks and doing our best to avoid the repeated attacks. By then, seeing as we were almost on top of their outer sentry posts at that point, the Legionnaires finally bestirred themselves to assist in driving off the gigantic winged menaces that were now presumably coming too close for _their_ comfort. The Legionnaires then brought us into the shelter of the fort proper, where the resident priest-healer of Kynareth could see to my sister's wounds.

It was fortunate the healer, a native of the province, knew well what he was doing, and had long familiarity with the exotic diseases of Morrowind. In the course of his examination he'd found Clesyne had contracted helljoint, presumably a last parting gift from that cliff racer I'd slashed off her. The fort commander graciously allowed us to rest there for a few days, in apology for his men's "tardiness in rendering assistance to Imperial citizens". It was just as well he did, because Clesyne started showing signs of the helljoint within hours of the attack despite the healer's attempt at prevention after the fact, and was completely miserable as a result. Once she was fit to travel, we'd then more or less limped back into Cyrodiil, getting to Cheydinhal in the trading caravan of a mostly unwelcoming Khajiit merchant, and then making our own way home to Imperial City, pride and resources well dented into near non-existence by the local wildlife of Morrowind.

It'd been a long three months, certainly. It might not have been what I'd imagined for my life in the beginning, but I did love my job with Sal. Still, the things he sent us out for sometimes… I had to question whether it was worth it. Especially with this latest madness with _bears_ of all things!

Rohssan let out a low whistle, silver head shaking in disbelief. "Well my friend, you've been amazingly lucky, you and your sister. Those beasts are formidable, as you've discovered for yourselves."

"I know. My luck in these things has been in-cre-di-b-ly" I stumbled a bit on the word, which had too damn many consonants, "good, fff-for some reason." I smiled sourly at her. Lucky to survive the attack mostly unhurt, but not quite so lucky in what came after. The blasted Khajiit caravaneer had demanded extortionate fees for allowing us to join his party, citing our disreputable appearances, the continued need for Clesyne to rest — taking up space in his wagon that could've held more goods — and inability to contribute to the business of his caravan. I'd tried to haggle a better price with the ragged-eared swindler, but to little avail; and the final price I reached severely drained our remaining funds, since much of our supplies and possible trading items had been lost in the cliff racer attack.

Divines, I was glad to see the back of that lout when we left the caravan at Cheydinhal. Either Clesyne or I would have to meet Sal later and claim reimbursement from him before we left to chase Frothi, or we'd be leaving a fair few debts behind us tomorrow. And as any experienced adventurer can tell you, leaving debts unsettled behind you anyplace is never a good thing. Just thinking of such a thing made my teeth itch.

Rohssan was still examining my armour — she'd moved on from the cuirass and gauntlets to the greaves and helmet, which were in slightly better condition, but not by much. Mouth pursed, she looked me directly in the eyes. "I can repair these, but it _will_ be expensive, and the strength of the joins and the armour as a whole won't ever be the same. You know as well as I do that you would be better off getting a new set, really — I do believe I managed to teach you that much."

I was afraid she'd say that.

"All ww- _right_ , so the cuirass is a lost cause. But can you destroy —" here I stopped, breathed in and out, once, twice, without looking up, " — can you _restore_ the rest of the armour?" I held my breath. With our ready funds being as low as they were, we'd had to dip into our emergency stash more than once over the last week. I could afford a new leather cuirass, but not a full set of new armour.

Dark eyes sparkled back at me. "Oh I reckon I can. After all, if I say I can't fix it, _it ain't broke!_ " I couldn't help but laugh at the time-worn sales line. My old master was truly one of the kindest persons in my acquaintance.

"When can I pick up my armour?" I asked Rohssan. "Man m-nn-needs finding; owes Sal a hair of bb- _bears_."

" _Bears_?" Rohssan's eyes were wide. "Now that sounds like a story worth hearing."

"Bears! Yeah, Skyrim snow bears," I groaned. " _Duh-dd-tuh-_ Two of them. Can you believe it?"

Rohssan merely grinned. "I'll want to hear the full story when you get back." The grin morphed into a full belly laugh. "Knowing you, I'm sure it'll be even more interesting than it is now, by then." She sobered, though snorts still escaped her at intervals. If I knew her, she was probably picturing me face to face with a bear, trying to 'make nice'. "Bears. Those sound dangerous, it's even worse knowing the kinds of people Salconius has you chasing every so often." She stroked the pieces of cuirass on her worktable. "Now I'd provide you with a cuirass myself, but, well — you know I've been focusing on swordsmithing nowadays, and all I have on hand at the moment armour-wise are heavy pieces, which you're no good with."

"Can I make an order for a ss-su — set?" It was getting harder to concentrate on speaking without yawning or slurring, for some reason. I must be even more tired than I'd thought.

"You could, but you're going after this man and his bears soon, yes? I've orders down in the books clear through to Frostfall at least. You know, the Emperor's Birthday celebrations; poncy nobles like new blades to show off at the parties, Leki knows why."

How _could_ I have forgotten? The Emperor's Birthday was indeed only a little over two months away: one of the biggest social events of the year, and anybody who was somebody likely to be invited to the Palace festivities would not be caught dead in less than their best, be it silks or ironmongery. The tailors, armourers and weaponsmiths would be busy with orders by now. It seemed I'd have to patronise the store of the two other renowned armoursmiths in the City, since they were more likely to have partially ready pieces to offer.

"Looks like it's Mmm-Maro for me." I tried not to sound too put out and failed. The thought of it alone made me grimace; the pair who owned the shop I'd be visiting had an highly — idiosyncratic relationship most people would rather avoid. Rohssan reached over to ruffle my hair, and I batted her hand away.

"Good luck with those two tomorrow; _The Mystic Emporium_ has a discount on healing potions this week, I hear."

"No funny," I grumbled.

" _He_ has been asking about you, you know. He's never stopped no matter how many times I put him off." Rohssan's words derailed our topic and my thoughts, and I blinked and stared much too long perhaps, before understanding who she was referring to. "How much longer do you intend to keep avoiding him? You're being unfair to me, asking me to run interference, and most unfair to him."

"I — I'll see him. P-puh-prromise."

Rohssan merely sighed. "You've said that, for how many years now?" She came out from behind her worktable and gave me a hug. "Think about it, won't you? It's long past time you fixed things between the two of you. You can't hope to dodge him forever."

It was now late into the evening, past Rohssan's usual closing time; I bade her goodnight and farewell, heading back next door for my turn at a hot meal. As expected, Clesyne had managed to charm Velus into giving us good deals on dried foodstuffs as well as herbs, so we were set on that front.

I headed up to my room after dinner, where I bundled up the scraps of the ruined armour, mentally calculating the price that I might be able to get for them on the morrow. We weren't absolutely hurting for money, as yet; but if there was anything our childhood experiences had taught us, it was the value of coin, and our excursion to Morrowind had dropped the weight of our money pouches to a level I wasn't comfortable with. I reflected that had we the time, I might just be able to mix up some potions to sell; those were always a quick source of money compared to the cost of producing them. Still, that was something to look into later. For now, all I wanted was my pillow and a thick blanket, which I proceeded to bury myself under after snuffing the candles.

* * *

I woke early the next morning, scoffing down a hot roll and buttered egg with small beer before running out the door, armour scraps rolled up and tucked under my arm. Thanks to my early start, I did manage to catch Maro Rufus almost as soon as he opened _The Best Defense_ for business. I needed a new cuirass, and quickly, and I would rather sacrifice more time in a snug bed to beat anyone else in line for the armourer's services: proper armour fittings, even when working from partially prefabricated pieces took lots of time. The resident smith and master armourer Gin-Wulm was nowhere to be seen as usual when I got there.

I let Maro know my intentions in patronizing his business today, as we haggled over the precise amount the scraps of my old set of armour was worth. The Colovian smith was much pleased by the prospect of incoming gold. The fitting for the front and back pieces of my new cuirass, as well as the leather laces that would hold them together took several hours as expected amidst tedious measurements, notes and discussions of metal rings as opposed to leather laces, lamellar armour as opposed to scale, linen thicknesses, rivets and the quality of the leather, and the processing involved. Our discussions were regularly punctuated with hilariously snide comments from the other side of the shop, and more entertainment in the form of the colours Maro's face took on with each quip or sting from his business partner. That wasn't to say that he didn't give back as good as he got: Varnado's expressions of disgust were amusing to behold on receipt of a telling shot.

There _had_ been a moment when I'd thought I might have soon cracked a rib though: Maro had yanked on the laces a tad too roughly, reacting to a certain comment that was rather more inflammatory than I'd heard yet. The quilted gambeson I had on did its work, but "too tight to breathe" is a far cry from "well-fitted, if stiff", and I'd had to signal Maro in a hurry to loosen the straps.

Not for the first time, I wondered just how Varnado had convinced Maro (or had it been the other way around?) to set up business together in the first place, considering how they apparently detested each other's specialty — and how long it might take before murder occurred. Granted, since they'd both been in business together long before I arrived in Imperial City for the first time and blood had yet to be shed, perhaps the antipathy the two displayed towards each other might not be quite as bad as it seemed? Judging from Gin-Wulm's long-standing avoidance of the two others who shared the premises however, that assumption was likely unfounded and the antipathy very, very real.

Still, it was a relief when I was done with the fitting, and I could escape the shop with a sore arm (courtesy of Maro's repeated thumps and admonishments to "stay still!" at my ill-repressed humour), uncracked ribs, and a sack containing the new boiled leather and linen cuirass: not quite as protective as my old chainmail, but it would have to do, considering the limited funds and time I had. At least I did manage to persuade Maro to add a heavy shoulderpiece to the cuirass: it reinforced my neck, back, and front. More importantly, in conjunction with the lead strips cunningly sewn into the front and back seams, the stiffness of the shoulderpiece would weigh my movements down in key places to something approaching what I would achieve with mail; a necessary feature since I didn't have the time to get re-accustomed to moving properly in leather, which though not light, was still much lighter than my customary chainmail. Dying from a missed stroke on an enemy was not on my list of things to do in any foreseeable future.

Clesyne had gone off to argue with Sal about our funding, which was likely to take a while. The items we were meant to have brought back from Vvardenfell had been partly damaged, thanks to the bloody cliff racers; the question now was how much of our pay Sal was going to dock for that mishap. Knowing that my armour fitting was likely to be long, barring good fortune, we'd planned to return and meet up at the inn again at two hours past noon. I judged that I still had some time to kill before I could go pick up the rest of my armour from Rohssan.

Wandering about the Market District, taking in the various sights and sounds of citizens hurrying along to wherever they were going seemed as good an occupation as any, and I could hope that the fresh air might stave off the slight headache I'd gotten from the smells in _The Best Defense_. That was part of the reasons why I'd not have made a very good armourer: the smell of curing leather made me ill.

Glancing at a large, colourful poster advertising the latest Arena fights between the Blue Team and Yellow Team, I noted that Agronak gro-Malog was still the reigning Grand Champion. I grinned at the poster, remembering the only time I'd met the man in person, courtesy of the friend of a friend of a friend who worked in the Bloodworks, a few years ago. His manners made a deep impression, his skills, displayed in the Challenge match which won him the title of Grand Champion of the Arena even more so. Agronak had seemed a friendly sort, courteous and kind as a good nobleman should, even if he were only, as word had it, only the bastard son of a nobleman — and the very devil in a fight.

Wandering further I remembered I had some minor items to trade in at _Jensine's_. One long and very hard haggling session later, we managed to agree on a price for my things. I congratulated myself on actually managing to get the better of her for once! I still found it hard to believe Jensine was a full Nord; her haggling skills would do any Breton or Khajiit merchant I knew proud. The only other around who drove an even harder bargain would likely be Palonirya, the Altmer clothier.

That done with, and coinpurse a little heavier than when I walked in, I went back to the inn, only to find that Clesyne still hadn't returned. Oh dear. It seemed Sal might be a lot more intractable than we'd thought. Bit not good. It wasn't anything I could help with however, since Clesyne had always been the better socialised of the two of us, and consequently dubbed the charming twin — my going over to help reason with Sal would probably backfire. I ate a quick lunch, then went to pick up my repaired armour from Rohssan. I didn't linger there — she had a truly demanding idiot of a customer to please, from the looks of it; and the lines around my old master's mouth were tightening with each passing minute the fool went on. I got out before the inevitable explosion of temper occurred.

I drifted along in the noon crowds, thoughtless, moving from the Market's precincts, to the outskirts of the Arena, and thence to the Arboretum's vast gardens and marble forae, where politicians met to discuss issues of state and the philosopher-teachers argued Divines-knew-what with their students and each other in the sunshine, and then back again into the Market District. Gradually I realised that my footsteps had taken me to a place I'd frequented oh-so-very often, many years ago, as I paused before the doors of _First Edition_. Even now the familiar signboard, blazoned with the icon of a book, made my heart leap with longing for the tomes and collected wisdom behind those doors.

I could feel my gut beginning to tighten, as though I were about to go into a fight. I squeezed my eyes shut and blinked them open again, looking at the signboard.

No change. The book icon, so familiar, seemed taunting in the light of the afternoon sun.

Why did I still hope there would be, after so long? And yet… I pushed the doors open, and walked in, my first step into a bookstore after seven long years.


	3. Chapter 2

Stepping into _First Edition_ 's trading floor felt almost like stepping back into a happier time. I lingered in the patch of shadows by the doorway, taking in the room quickly, noting changes that had occurred since I was last here.

The two large bookshelves that dominated the wall closest to the entrance, facing the counter, still held the odd few pieces of silverware Phintias prized: family heirlooms from Hammerfell, dated all the way back to the time of Tiber Septim at least.

I then spotted a newer addition, one that made my breath catch for a heartbeat as I blinked back sudden tears: in pride of place on the next shelf, at the same level as his family silver, Phintias had set up a novice's alembic, of the kind favoured by alchemical students the continent over; a very familiar one, somewhat battered by wear and time.

I had to force myself to look away from the shelf and its contents, and continue scanning the room, running through my calming exercises. _Breathe in, breathe out. Exhale and inhale_. Those exercises had been seeing all too much use lately.

The sight of the familiar dark wood shelves behind the counter brought on yet another rush of nostalgia tinged memory. In these shelves reposed a large array of common reference volumes and general reading to satisfy the most voracious bookworm. More importantly for seekers of knowledge and antique curiousities, they also housed a selection of Phintias's rare bibliophilic finds, not to be sold for love or for money. However, he did not begrudge their loan, after a fashion: he didn't mind if you wanted to read the books, so long as you handled them _very_ carefully, under his anxious supervision, and did not attempt to remove them from the shelves on your own, or even _breathe_ wrongly on a fragile page.

Woe betide you if you handled a volume carelessly however — there is scarcely any way faster to put you in Phintias's bad books. Phintias was a mild mannered soul, very polite, but even he had his limits, and he _was_ a true son of the Ra'Gada. Lest anyone doubt that fact: On my second visit to his store, a student from the Arcane University had attempted to handle one of his precious books with hands still stained by some noxious remnant of an experiment, that was like to spread onto the paper. The resulting roar of rage could be heard in the street through the thick stone walls, so the gossip ran; and of course no one could've missed the sight of the hapless young man being literally ejected from the premises via a boot to the backside, accompanied by a very loud diatribe on the proper care and handling of books.

Needless to say I made extremely sure I was always clean and neat visiting his shop thereafter!

More volumes — newly arrived from other parts of the province, perhaps from even further away, were stacked on the long cluttered counter. I stifled a laugh. Phintias never did manage being perfectly neat with anything other than books, and age hadn't improved him in that aspect. Smaller bookshelves covered the other walls, also filled with printed goodness. I took a good long sniff of the air, redolent with the unique scent of books and paper: musty, vaguely sweet and grassy, melding with the light honey perfume of the good beeswax candles that gave a mellow light to the many-windowed room. All in all the room still retained the impression of being a library, particularly since Phintias had a few comfortable chairs and a table readied in a corner, under one of the clerestory windows along the walls; a convenience for waiting customers to leaf through prospective purchases.

Good old Phintias himself was there behind the counter, as usual. He'd picked up some more grey hairs, and his hairline had receded in truly alarming fashion in the years between then and now, but here he was, still quietly happy amongst his beloved books and wearing that ridiculous brown quilted doublet. Desert born and bred, used to the heat and shifting sands of the Alik'r, Phintias'd never quite felt at home with the much cooler climate of Cyrodiil, and would insist on wearing thicker clothes than the rest of us born to milder climes, never mind the fact it was Sun's Height, one of the hottest months of the year.

As he was somewhat distracted by a volume he had open in front of him on the lectern, with his head bent low over a page he was examining with a glass, he didn't bother to look up as he launched into his standard new customer greeting spiel: "I'm Phintias, owner and proprietor of First Edition —" At this point he looked up with a practiced smile, which soon faded into a puzzled frown as he struggled to determine who I was. "Pardon me, dear lady, but have we met?"

I smiled at him — or tried to, since the muscles of my face felt frozen, even as I forced my shaking knees to move into the better light. I couldn't tell if I'd succeeded or not, or what expression even was on my face; but it was unlikely to have been happy, given the expression on Phintias's face, which was verging on mild alarm. Probably wondered if I were in distress.

"You used to have to chase me out at closing t-time nearly every night for years, master Phintias. I nearly blew up your basement once, when I was ut-attem — _trying_ to help you with one of your alchemical experiments. And I can't remember how many afternoons you sat me down at that table over there trying —" My voice cracked embarassingly at this point, as Phintias's face paled under his dark complexion, eyes wide and wondering, mouth partially agape — "trying to drum Asliel Direnni's _30 Basic Principles of Alchemical Combination_ into my head."

"No, it can't be surely — Arli-girl, oh Arli, Arli, Divines, you — how —?"

Looking back, it was a minor miracle that all that came out as amazingly smoothly as it did, given my emotional state. Rohssan might have been my first teacher and later my emotional bulwark and agony aunt through the greater part of a decade, but Phintias had been my mentor through the best years of my life; had seen me, my intellectual abilities fostered and cared for as surely as he tended his books. He'd encouraged my explorations of alchemy in his basement, pushed my mental horizons with brain teasers, word games and discussions of philosophy and history drawn from the volumes on his shelves.

It was he who had encouraged me to give the fullest expression possible to my arcane talents, pushing me to join the Mages Guild and Arcane University despite his own reservations about magic.

He'd been gleeful when we celebrated my making Journeyman rank in the Guild with rounds all around at the Merchants' Inn, and the morning after a truly memorable night was probably the only time in its history that _First Edition_ had opened late for business.

Clesyne and I never knew our father — he left us before we were born, and our stepfather isn't worth the spit it took to call him that. But I knew — know, that I did — do — have a pa all the same.

And I'd left him wondering what had happened to the young coltish Breton girl he'd taken under his wing, who'd suddenly vanished after something the Guild had tried their damndest to cover up. Vanished without so much as a word, for seven long years, because I was so afraid I'd now be nothing but a disappointment to him.

I'd hid, going along with Clesyne because she was older, was stronger at that point, and it was easier. Easier among people who didn't know me from Before. Before, when I was a mage, a highly skilled one, and a rising star within the Guild. Before the Incident that took it all away and knocked my sense of who I was flat and smashed it into pieces. Before I lost my magical skills. Before I lost an integral part of myself, something that defined my earliest memories. Before abstract spell diagrams and books and scrolls stopped making sense for me.

Before I kept losing my words.

Right now, however, Phintias was in front of me, face blank in shock, in disbelief that the prodigal had finally returned to him. Minutes passed without a reaction and I could feel what courage I had in coming here begin to shrivel. I took a step backwards to the door. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake, shouldn't have come here —

He broke the silence first. "You cut your hair." His voice, normally strong and even, was quavering noticeably. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak and not ruin it all. Right now all Phintias knew was that I'd gone, not why —

"Oh Arli. Silly goose. Come here." He spread his arms wide in welcome, much as he had for a young 19 year old girl, more than 10 years ago. I went, and as I felt his warm arms closing around me, I broke down and cried like a baby, babbling all the while. I'd missed this shop, missed him and the comfort he gave, like the sharp ache in a hollowing tooth, and the hurt was just leaching out now, after almost a decade.

He held on to me, even as he locked the doors and pulled me towards the corner with its chairs and low table, rocking me gently, and didn't stop, making soothing noises and tangling his fingers through my short loose combed hair, much as he had all those years ago.

"I can't. Can't. Not anymore. Can't. No nore words. No —" _books_ , I would have said, but what came out instead was _hooks_. "Can't _bead_. Can't pen proh-properly either — dound zo _s-s-s-stupid_ —!" I screamed, short, ugly, strangled, much as my thoughts were strangled by my accursed damage. "Me. Cursed. Always. _Punished._ " I looked up into his face and promptly buried my own back into his broad chest, even as I felt a tear fall into my hair and trickle along my scalp. Bad enough I was bawling; I didn't want or need to see him cry, too.

"Shh, shh. Shhh. I know, I know all of it. Don't cry, little bird. You're not cursed. Certainly not divinely punished." I drew back from him in surprise.

"You… knew?"

Phintias's smile was sad. "I did. Come now, did you really think Rohssan wouldn't finally have told me after I pestered her for information, as free-brother to free-sister? I've known what happened to you for some years now."

I was a total fool. Of course. Of course he'd have known eventually; I'd only avoided him but I hadn't changed my name or appearance nor made a serious effort to go to ground, and he did have an extensive network of contacts at his disposal. And there was Rohssan's and his shared links to the _a'mazihe_ , a fellowship comprised of Redguards of the Lhotunic persuasion. In any place where the Redguard diaspora had settled, _a'mazihe_ were to be found, their members widespread through Tamriel. I'd likely been watched over from afar and not known it, and the thought brought on a fresh bout of tears as my legs crumpled under me, Phineas grunting as he steadied my descent.

Phintias sighed as he got us both up, releasing me once he'd plopped me into a chair, but not before giving my shoulders a firm squeeze. I heard him hurry away and up the stairs as I struggled to control my breathing, which was well into the hiccoughing stage now. Pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, I rubbed my face hard. The usual aftereffects of a crying jag — stuffed nose, itchy eyelids and general discomfort in the cranial region — were making my head pound even worse. It felt good though, in its own way; the estrangement I'd chosen had wounded me more than I realised. To have it over and done with now was cleansing. It was a heady feeling, this new lightness.

More bustling about behind me, the sounds of water sloshing about. Soon, a large brass basin of water arrived, lightly scented with peppermint. I looked up as it clunked down on the table in front of me, still feeling light-headed — I chose not to look at Phintias just yet, even as he tossed me a small washcloth, which landed in my lap, before moving away again.

A little while later the delicate clink of china heralded a pot of tea arriving, with two cups and saucers. At this point I decided I'd have to stop ignoring Phintias's presence: it was bad manners verging on insult, ignoring a Redguard being hospitable. I lifted my head up from where I'd been staring at a spot on the ground, and immediately noticed he'd changed out of the brown doublet for a burgundy shirt. Oh. Right. I'd messed up his clothing. I felt my cheeks flame, and again cursed my distant ancestors for the Breton pale complexion, which notoriously showed a person's embarrassment at the drop of a hat.

He snorted, likely deducing the cause of my sudden blush. "Ah, wash your face girl. Haven't I told you before you shouldn't cry? You haven't the right colouring for it; makes you look horrible when you've been bawling something awful." My answering chuckle might be clogged still with more snot and tears, but it felt good to laugh with him; yet another thing I'd missed.

"I'm sorry."

An eyebrow tilted upwards. "Now what are you sorry for? My doublet's lasted this long; I doubt any amount of your tears or snot soaked in it will destroy it now. It just needs a wash and it'll be good as new, see?" He was being deliberately facetious about it; it was obvious how his smile didn't reach beyond the bare upturn of his mouth.

"Not — not that, not just the skirt —" _Damn!_ — " _shirt_ , I mean, oh Nine help me…" I couldn't help clenching my fists; it was that, or throw things, or scream, and my throat hurt enough I seemed a veritable bullfrog judging from sound alone. I stopped at his raised hand.

"Shh. Don't, not right now. I _do_ want to know, in your own words, why you thought you should stay away, never mind why it took you seven years to come back — " here his expression, unusually open, showed a deep hurt, and the guilt cascaded over me again — "but not right now. You sit quietly and drink your tea, and then we'll start over, shall we?"

The tea was strong, black, very sweet and made more potent with the inclusion of a good shot of Colovian brandy, if I had the scent and taste aright. I savoured the burn and warmth as the drink went down and hit my stomach, and then stared into the bottom of the cup. The silence was warm, a cloying breathing thing around us until Phintias cleared his throat.

"Rohssan explained some of what happened to you. Just — _why_ did you leave in the first place, why stay away for so long?" There was something plaintive about the question, and I had no defence, really; it'd been much too long, and the only truthful reasons here I could give was that I'd been a coward and running.

"Why stay when tt-there was nothing left?" I spoke slowly, trying to get my words out of my uncooperative mouth. "I was… afraid. Afraid you'd be different now, because I was, am. Afraid you'd pity me for being broken. You did so much for me, helped so much." I paused. "You broadened my mind, you know? All these — ", waving a hand at the bookcases, "and… I couldn't enjoy them together with you, like we used to."

Phintias looked pained but resolute. "I never got the chance to try, did I?"

I looked at him, feeling absolutely miserable. What could I say? How could I explain? "No. At first I d-didn't want you there to see me like that. Those injuries — awful. No one knew just how I lived. People died. _I_ should've died, so everyone told me when I woke up six months after. Said was — amazing. I say curse. You didn't see the first few months, that first year after — how I struggled to even make myself understood." He looked as though he were about to say something before I cut him off.

"Believe me, you wouldn't have friend me when I first woke up, after. Hell, _I_ didn't like me either. Mood swings worse than a pregnant woman. I'd be angry, then depressed for no reason. Nothing said around me made sss-sense for long, my ff-focus was so bad. Hands shaking all the time. Could hardly do anything for myself." I saw his eyes dart from my face to my right hand, which was trembling noticeably at the moment and threatening to slosh tea into my lap, and back. I set the cup down, harder than I ought but my hand was starting to grow unwilling to respond, a familiar numbness in the limb creeping up again.

"I tried to die, lots of times, you know? It was the only thing I knew at the time. I'd wake up and all I'd tt-tthhink of was how to try and die today. Hurt more people trying. My healers, my twin. They learned to lock up all the poisons and tie me to the bed after the third time. Every time it didn't work, I just wanted… out."

My poor mentor was clearly only growing more and more horrified as I went on, but I found suddenly that I couldn't care. Something dark and mean in me was actually enjoying the shock on his face. He wanted to know everything? Wanted to share in my misery? He damn well _would_ by the time I was done, more than I'd even told Rohssan, and welcome to it! I had to pause for breath here, before shouldering through. " _Everything_ on paper stopped making sense; words and lettering looked like so many squiggles on a page, still do. You can't understand what it's like: normal one day, waking up the next all wrong and 6 months of life gone? I understood what everyone around me was saying here," tapping my temple, "I knew exactly what I wanted to say, but talk and…" I trailed off, watching poor Phintias look as though all his beloved books had suddenly turned into dust on him.

"Did Rohssan tell you? I only managed to speak as well as I do now in the last three years. People laugh and call me simple, because I fall the word I want in mm-midsentence. I've spent nearly tt-two years just relearning how to speak _full sentences_ in Cyrodiilic, never mind Bretic or Altmeris, and even now it's still not quite right, may never be. I've spent just as long, l-longer, trying to how to read, and nothing. I have blank spots in my memory that won't be filled." I giggled. Finally letting loose was being like on a moon-sugar high of epic proportions. "Did you want to know just when and how I realised I couldn't cast spells anymore? I tried to sat myself alike and realised I couldn't speak the words and make the right gestures at the same time. I tried and tried and tried…"

"Stop! ENOUGH!"

I jerked back at the force behind the word. Phintias was on his feet, looking rather wild around the eyes. I shrank back from him — as he was, he looked more than a little maddened. He must've noticed then, because he lost all his fire and sagged back into his chair. "Enough. Please." He was quieter now, older, saddened, weary; I felt all of three inches tall and equally fragile. Why had I lashed out at him? He didn't deserve what I'd just thrown at him. I looked down at the floor, counting cracks in the flagstones, not daring to look further at him. Pity from him now, at the last, would be more than I could stand.

He reached across the small table, wrapping his large warm hands around my smaller, calloused ones, which were still fisted, to my numbed surprise. Prying my fingers loose from their death clench, he tutted at the blood under my nails and in my palm, snatching up the washcloth and dipping it again into the by now cold wash water to wash the marks off. I kept looking at the floor even when he stood up to place my hands back into my lap.

"Arliene. Girl, come on now, look at me." He was openly pleading now but I simply couldn't look him in the face.

He said something else, but I only heard a buzzing in my ears. I might have gone on ignoring him, but couldn't stop the relentless, if careful pressure around the side of my face, that tilted my chin up to face his. I stared back at him, searching for signs of— what? Pity? Anger?

"Don't be like that. Now, why you ever thought I might pity you is beyond me." He surprised me and it showed. "You think you're the only one who's ever suffered this kind of head injury?"

Dumbly, I shook my head no. He smoothed my unruly hair back from my face, and then further up the left side, tracing the bared path of the great scar there, the only physical reminder of the injury that had almost killed me.

"Clesyne does." My older sister, labouring under misplaced guilt for reasons obscure. It might not be often, but I'd surprised the flash of pity-filled guilt in her face often enough to be sure of what I was seeing, and, as I now realised, to resent her and everyone else who carried that look deeply. Just _how_ deeply, I hadn't realised until now.

"Bah, Clesyne." Phintias scowled. "That fool! I should tell her to save her pity for ones who need it, but I'll not waste breath advising where it would be wasted!" He snorted again. "Pity, hah. _You_ ", wagging a finger in my face, "don't need that waste of time."

"Do you know what I see in you, Arliene?" he asked. "I see a great rock outcrop in the desert. Scoured, cracked, battered by wind and sand and the summer cloudbursts, but still there, proud and strong all the same, a guide in the shifting sands." He smiled, a paternal sort of pride that lit his face through the sadness. "Nothing to be pitied there, nor at all disappointing. You survived what should have killed you, and you've healed and learned to do without. Now you're almost your old self again; and you did it on your own — no one could have learned to live again for you. You had to find out how yourself. You've found a new way to go on living. What else matters, in the face of that?"

What else, indeed. Life wasn't about to get any easier, and surely Clesyne would give me a tongue-lashing when I returned for being abominably late now; but an old fear that had haunted me for years now was finally buried. Phintias saw _me_ for how I really was: not the broken me who threw frustrated tantrums, struggled for words and mangled them and couldn't read her own name, in a world where nearly everyone was literate, but the Arliene stuck inside bars of flesh and blood, no simpleton.

I hugged him again, tight. No words were necessary for a long while after.

* * *

Clesyne wasn't happy when I finally got back to the inn. That was all right; I wasn't feeling all that good either. "Where have you been? Julianos's eyes, it's too late to set out and still reach Weye before dark — have you been _crying_?" I swatted her hand away from my jaw. Phintias had kindly supplied a diluted measure of healing potion to counteract the effects of my emotional outburst before I left him, but my eyes must be still visibly reddened, since Clesyne had actually noticed it. My dear twin was many things, but 'highly observant' is not a description I would apply to her most days.

I smiled at her to try and ease off some of her building protective tendencies. Didn't work too well though, from the looks of it: she was still regarding me with suspicion and anger, presumably on my behalf. Elder of the both of us by a full night and a bit, and she never let me forget it. Bossy, bossy woman. I think it almost killed her to let me off on my own for 6 months, the first time I came to Imperial City.

"Who was it?" Her voice was harsh and grating, obviously ready to haul off and maim whoever'd had the temerity to make me cry.

My head gave an extra vicious throb. "Eh, no one. Prrobably a lll…little too much sun, thaas' all, it's Fiery Night tonight remember. H-had a bit of a headache on the way back from Maro's — you know how he and his partner get in their shop, and it's stuffy in there too, besides the curing leather stink."

Clearly she didn't believe me, because her face grew harder. I hastily added, "I think tt-t-that and the weather set it off. My head did rather pain earlier, but it's died down some, so I'm all right, really. "

Clesyne's jaw was clenched so hard I feared momentarily for her back teeth. Time to cajole her into more tolerable behaviour. "I'll be fine with a bit more rest; it's probably just all the travelling we've been doing lately, stress and lack of sleep you know?" I went slowly, as much to project assurance as to make sure my brain had no chance to tangle my tongue. Again with that guilty look on her face, not that I wasn't above milking it for my own purposes. But really, the way she reacted, you'd think she'd _asked_ to be half eaten by cliff racers and carried home after.

"You sure?" Divines, best head her off that track of thought. Clesyne in full mother-hen mode was not to be borne. I could just see her itching to tuck me into bed and force-feed me more soup and vile potions than I ever wanted to taste again, and worst of all, hovering inches from my bedside, waiting on me hand and foot and generally resembling the mythical Wrath of Sithis — implacable and unbudgeable. "Yes, I'm sss… sure! Trust me to know my own limits won't you?"

"When have you _ever_ known your own limits little sister?"

Now, really, that was laying it on a bit thick. "Oi! Enough already! Not so little anymore, have you noticed?"

My sister laughed. "All right, all right, I get it, you're a big girl who doesn't need her older sister looking after her."

I stuck out my tongue at her as she brushed my hair away from my face again. Why does everyone I know get the urge to play with my hair? I like my hairstyle as it is — people notice me less and ask fewer questions when my hair's over most of my face, for one thing; and being mostly unmemorable is a _good_ thing in my line of work. "Answer me honestly though — _are_ you really well enough to travel tomorrow?"

I shut my eyes and thought hard, assessing what my body was trying to tell me. I wasn't lying about having a headache, just its source and timing. Even before the accident, I'd been prone to frequent headaches; it runs in families, I've been told, and mother did use to have some very bad spells around her time of the month.

In my case, my accident seemed to have caused what had been a fairly harmless, if irritating trait to worsen however. The occasional seizures from the initial damage had worn off after the first year, thank the gods, but the increased number and severity of the headaches was still a concern. The usual, minor ones were nothing, really — I could bull through those without benefit of pain relief or healing nowadays. It was the major ones I hated. Waves of nausea, terrible sensitivity to light and smells and not daring to move for fear of making everything worse. Each time it happened I'd be out for a good day or three, and slowed for a couple days after — meaning I'd be mostly useless for a week or so.

"We'll see, 'Syne. If I'm to have one of my fits, we'll know it by m-morning." That didn't make her any happier, but it was the gods' own truth: my body was hardly a predictable machine these days. "Mmbut right now I'm hungry. Sss… shall we eat? Yyou can ttell me how things went with the boss over dinner. Is Sal very angry over the damage to his items?" I signaled the serving girl for a serving of the inn's special for the evening: venison, boiled to near tastelessness and then baked in a pie with spiced root vegetables in a sort of mush. Less exotic than the previous night's offering had proved, but good all the same.

As it turned out, Sal _was_ angry, but our hard luck story had mollified him somewhat. Clesyne had even managed to sweet talk him out of docking our pay, meaning we got our full wages, so we weren't going to be cash strapped for the short term. The supplies were ready, Clesyne had even gotten us horses so we'd not have to walk, and best of news, even got a lead on our quarry — the latest news was that he was still in Bravil. She didn't say who'd given her our lead, and I knew better than to ask. My sister had dealings in low places that it were perhaps best I know nothing of, for her peace of mind and mine.

The evening grew rather late, and I was beginning to long for the quiet of the upstairs rooms. The throbbing at my temples had been building all evening, from a nagging pinch to the characteristic tightening band around my skull, and I'd found it hard to summon the will to make conversation. As soon as I could, I escaped, saying that I was tired from earlier, and my sister made no comment. I could feel her gaze on my back all the way up the stairs however.

Blessed silence filled the room as I shut the thick wooden door after me. Velus cared for the comfort of his patrons, and it showed in the little details, like the muffling enchantments on the door and walls. Snuffing all but a single candle, I filled the washbasin from the large ewer of water ready to hand, then added the blended sweet oils the healer had recommended in general against headaches and megrims like mine; the familiar scents of clove and lavender wafted into the darkened air as I swirled the water about.

I washed my face and upper torso with the linens provided, longing for steaming hot water, instead of the tepid liquid I had. I wasn't really in the mood to head down to the main room and request some, or even to ask Clesyne for help. To think, once upon a time I'd warmed my own bath water with nary a thought — but that was long gone now. I massaged my scalp and neck muscles vigorously, rolling my shoulders as I did so — they were knotted tight; and I could just about feel the warning signs of an impending massive headache arriving.

I rummaged through my bags, pulling out a bottle that was about a quarter filled with the potion Sinderion had compounded for me a while ago, the then latest result of his ongoing efforts against my… unusual malady, and which I had to dose myself with quite regularly, about once every two weeks. I doubted it'd hold off the headache entirely this time, but it might be enough to keep me functional on the morrow. I calculated my current dosage against how much I was likely to need, and how long it might be before I could visit the alchemist again: a smaller dose would have to suffice for now.

The taste, sadly, was no better than the last time. In fact I would've sworn that it was _worse_ than I remembered. What _had_ Sinderion put in there this round? Or had the potion degraded somehow, unlikely as it might be? Still, there was no doubt that it was at least mostly effective. Considering our potential routes, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for the nirnroots the mer was so obsessed with. I did still owe him about 40 or so samples of the root for his research, and there were some swamplands in the area, not to mention the banks and tributaries of the Niben close by I hadn't searched.

I drifted into sleep, imagining warm afternoons combing streams and marshlands, listening for the faint high chiming of nirnroots amidst the rush of water.

* * *

I woke up sometime in the night, unsure at first what had woken me up. Fuck, my feet and hands were _freezing_. My head then chose to give a hard throb, as if someone had stuck a huge needle into my eye, which soon became a vicious pounding through the rest of my head, which was spinning like I'd just come off a ten-day bender involving a massive quantity of skooma and strong drink.

Rolling off the bed, my first coherent thought was to grab Sinderion's potion, but my knees crumpled under me and I hit the floor hard, adding to my misery. Dull knives, throbbing through my head with my heartbeat like the world's biggest drum, the pain beat a steady tattoo that made it hard to even think, much less move. Flashes of colour dotted my vision, bursts of colour in time with the pain.

A queasy feeling made my stomach flip, and I felt about for the chamber pot and retched into it, on hands and knees. A wet splatter on the floor made me aware that I had missed my mark in the dark, but I was too far gone to even care. The retching continued on and on, as my stomach purged itself of what felt like every meal from the past month. The purging just made my head hurt worse, however; and the increasing pain that felt like my head would explode from the pressure, simply made my stomach even more unsettled in a building cycle.

My right hand and arm had felt like it'd gone to sleep, and it now gave way under me. I fell forwards and landed in a pool of something wet and foul smelling, which set my stomach off again, though all I could manage now were dry heaves, over and over that hurt even worse.

I curled up right there, not caring, and prayed to all the gods and demons to please let me die; because life wasn't pleasant enough to be worth facing this sort of indescribable pain.

The sounds of my moaning and vomiting must have woken up Clesyne at some point, because I felt her hand smooth down my back and up again in circles. I swallowed the saliva that had gathered in my mouth, and instantly regretted it as the pain shot up another notch, impossible as it had seemed.

"M-make it stop!" I whispered, though I regretted it immediately. Even the movement of my jaw was enough to set off another round of pain and retching. The faint sound of Clesyne casting a spell brought it all to a matchless peak of suffering and I think I might've cried out, before everything went black and there was nothing left but the pain…

* * *

I drifted back into consciousness, head still aching, but not as bad as it had been. I felt as though I'd been drowned in heavy syrup, weak, and dizzy. Wherever I was though, it was dim and cool, perfectly lovely and really, nothing was happening that needed me. I'd just close my eyes, rest a little longer…

* * *

I awoke again, finally mostly clear-headed after what seemed an eternity of fogginess. Cautiously opening my eyes, in case they were still sensitive to light, I saw not the flat beams of the room at the inn, but a vaulted ceiling, high and made of stone. Where was I and how did I get here?

I sat up with some difficulty, since I was still weak and shaky as a newborn foal, and looking about me, realised where I was. My brain obviously wasn't up to much at the moment if it was still disoriented in these surroundings, considering how often I'd been a guest here. This was one of the healing rooms located in the great Temple of the One.

The air smelled faintly of healing herbs and potions. The room was darkened by heavy drapes, which light from the windows on my left edged in brilliance, and the sole door was opposite it. A cupboard with a lock on the doors was to the right of my bed, with a larger table next to it. The bed I was in was narrow, but the bedding was clean and soft, and there was a tin mug and a pewter jug on a stand next to the bed, in easy reach.

I shifted a little, then knelt up on the bed to get within reach of the jug. I looked into the jug, and it proved to contain water; at this point I became conscious of the fact my mouth felt like a desert. Lifting the jug, and then steadying it with both hands felt like a titanic effort; the stream of water as I poured the jug's contents into the mug visibly shook, and I spilled a fair bit out of the mug before it reached my mouth. I was glad for the water though.

I set the mug back down, thirst quenched for the moment. I ran over what I remembered of events: dinner with my sister, then the blinding pain that had happened later in the night. Clesyne must've knocked me out with the strongest sleeping spell she knew of, and brought me here to the healers. But if so, where was she?

I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, and set my feet on the floor, marshalling my strength, before carefully attempting to stand up. A sudden rush of vertigo made my head and vision swim in circles, before I fell forwards, clutching at anything close by on the way down. The impact was jarring, I'd sent something crashing as I fell, and I could taste blood in my mouth — I'd bitten my tongue. Owww.

The door swung open and rapid footsteps moved in my direction, though I was too busy trying to persuade myself I was already the right way up to see who it was. All I saw were the hems of grey robes and a flash of sandals, before the person raised me off the floor and helped me back into bed.

"Really Arliene, must you do this every time?" A deep raspy voice chided me, long familiarity taking the edge off of the asperity that coloured his tone.

"I don't, Jeelius. Really. I just thought I'd —"

"Thought, _nothing_. The only thing you'll be doing, until I or Tandilwe say otherwise, is to stay in that bed and rest."

"But Jeelius, Clesyne — where is she? I should find her, we —" A scaly digit wagged in front of my eyes, threateningly. I blinked, and the finger remained there.

"Ah-ah-ah! You're not going _anywhere_ until I release you from my care, and _don't_ even think of trying to sneak out! I've your things safely locked up where you can't get at them, and the stables have been notified not to release your horse to you for another three days."

"Divines take it, Jeelius! What am I, your prisoner?" I was fuming and glared hard at Jeelius. Sneaky, bossy, meddling Argonian! Clesyne was out there on her own, and while I knew my sister could certainly handle herself on her own, the roads were dangerous for solo travellers, even the most experienced. I wanted to be out there, watching her back just as she watched mine, not stuck here for even longer growing fat and restless.

Jeelius didn't seem moved by my glare, and returned it, with interest. "You've been here for four days now; we had to keep you unconscious for most of the first three, because you were in too much pain otherwise, even if you don't remember it. We feared that if we hadn't, the strain on your body would cause a brain storm, or worse." The Argonian priest's face was set in a thunderous frown that only grew blacker with each word. "Whatever you were supposed to be doing can wait until you're better. You need to rest here and recover your strength, Arliene, not go chasing after your sister across the length of Cyrodiil!"

I opened my mouth to argue, then thought better of it from seeing Jeelius's expression. His skin was mottled redder than normal, a sign of his extreme irritation. Obviously he was not in a mood to negotiate the length of my stay, and any further argument would likely result in lengthening it, rather than the opposite. I knew better than to argue with a healer either — they were sneaky, devious people who could and would have you following their wishes, whether you wished it or not; and certainly not in his own domain.

Jeelius looked down at me from where he stood by my bed, satisfied he had the upper hand for the moment. "Are we going to continue this argument? Or will I have to call Rohssan here to talk sense into you?" Oh, that was blackmail. At least he likely hadn't gotten wind I'd started reconciling with Phintias. I wouldn't have been able to withstand both of them at once, and he knew it. I sagged back into the pillow, suddenly very tired.

"No, Jeelius, you won't. I'll do as you and Tandilwe say. If only to get out of here faster." He snorted. "No offense, Jeelius, but I don't like healing rooms at all. I eye too much of them as it is."

"Ah, such thanks we healers receive! Your ingratitude wounds me to the core." His grin took the sting from the words however. "Now, you must be hungry. We did get some weak broth into you at times over the last few days, but I'm sure we can do better than that now. How about some salted wheat porridge? With ground liver in it," he added.

"I'll take the porridge, even if it mouth — _tastes_ like pap, knowing your cooking; but I don't want any liver, that's just _disgusting_!"

"Liver is good for you," Jeelius remarked.

"Feed me anything with liver in it, and I'll vomit it out on your shoes, don't think I won't," I warned him.

"Now I know you really must be feeling better," Jeelius's laugh was a long, faintly hissing sound. "You only start arguing about what you'll eat or won't eat, when your head isn't killing you anymore, I've noticed. Pity. I _had_ wondered if we'd manage to feed you more _liver_ broth while you're here. What have you been eating? You definitely need strengthening and better food, you're too thin."

I sputtered in outrage at his words. I did watch what I put in my mouth — I had to, considering certain foods and drinks would trigger my headaches, as far as I could tell. I didn't need a bossy healer to tell me what I could eat!

"I have no expectations of _your_ cooking, since you're still the only person I know who can burn water without effort; but didn't your sister cook you anything while you were on the road? I can't imagine she'd have liked going hungry for days."

 _"Jeelius!"_ I threw a pillow at him to stop his snickering. I might be a lousy cook, but I'd only burned water _once_! The damn lizard of a healer escaped through the door before I could send another missile after him, still laughing.

"No liver, Jeelius! I mean it!" I hoped he heard me through the door, but it was probably unlikely. Still, he could try it if he wanted. He might sneak it into my food, but woe unto him if I found out — his God wouldn't save him from the pranks I'd pull on him.


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Note: Thank you to my handful of readers so far! Hope you're enjoying the story so far- am I pacing this too slowly?

If you've any comments, or questions, do leave a review, and I'll try to get back to you.

* * *

Jeelius and Tandilwe were both competent healers. This also meant they were the type who couldn't stand seeing hurt or broken people and things without trying to do something about it. To put it less politely, they were inveterate meddlers. Well-meaning, to be sure, like the maiden aunts who'd helped raise Clesyne and me; but still meddlers. I felt like I was being smothered under the weight of their dual concern.

I was in the Temple healing rooms for another two days, before both Jeelius and Tandilwe declared themselves satisfied with my condition enough to let me travel. By this time I was already edgy and plotting ways out the Temple and escaping the duo's tender mercies.

The two were also horribly naggy about my health and further care. I knew they meant well, but I was hardly a 10 year old who needed to be told to wrap up warmly! I had multiple lectures on "taking it easy" and "rest often, don't try and push through the night!" and so on. The repeated lectures had grown horribly boring long before I could make my escape.

J'mhad, who was a fairly knowledgeable healer in his own right, though he served mainly as groundskeeper for the Temple, merely shook his head at their attempts at cosseting. Not that he didn't keep me to regular hours; the old cat was strict with his few patients in his own way. It however didn't stop him from sneaking me treats in between the horrible tasting medicines and bland foods, with a wink and a twitch of his whiskers — as our usual agreement was.

I was really going to have to figure out something nice to get him as a present, this Harvest's End festival.

Once again, I made my way through the City's districts, enjoying the warmth of the late summer sun. The days were still bright and fairly long this early in Last Seed, and the breeze was fresh as it blew in my face under an overcast sky. I bought a hot sweetroll from a street vendor and ate as I walked, enjoying the bursts of sweet honey with each bite, and taking in the crowds and snippets of overheard gossip as I passed.

I noticed something was rather odd though; more whispers were flowing behind covered mouths than usual, even in the poorer boroughs, and the whisperers went absolutely silent when a member of the Imperial Watch went by. The mood of the City was nervous, but what about? So far I hadn't heard anything unusual was on the horizon, and the City's politics had been quiet, as far as I could tell; no murders or great scandals had come to light recently.

I didn't have much to go on though, and any speculation soon lost to other, more pressing issues. Clesyne had left word with the Temple, on the night she'd brought me there, that she was still headed out towards Bravil; and as no word had come back to say any different thus far in the week since, I was determined to meet her there. With any luck Frothi (and the bears) would be in Bravil, and our business with him would be swiftly concluded.

I was relieved when I reached the stables on the outskirts of the city; I had been fighting the urge to look over my shoulder for Jeelius or Tandilwe all the way from the Temple District. The nagging feeling that one or the other would appear and drag me back to a bed was haunting me like a bad itch that couldn't be scratched.

No overly-concerned healers showed their faces, though, and I claimed my horse without incident from the stables. Saddling, securing my tack, pack and saddlebags to the lovely chestnut mare my sister had left in the stables' care was an unexpected joy: I was no great judge of horseflesh, but I could tell Clesyne had lucked out with this one. Once astride her back, I felt the thrill of setting out again prickle in my veins, more invigorating than cold water on a hot summer afternoon.

Riding out over the great Talos Bridge that joined the City Isle to the banks of the Rumare, I noticed the increased presence of the Watch at both ends of the bridge, keeping an eye on the masses of people that flowed in both directions in and out of the City. They didn't give me any trouble though, and I was soon across and amongst the lingering poor houses and shanties that clung to the shorelines and spread away from them in a stretch nearly a quarter mile wide. These poor livings were the true outskirts of the Imperial City, overflow from the City proper.

I looked to the sky. What had been overcast, if mostly sunny weather was now a threatening grey — rain would be here by nightfall at the latest, and the late summer rains that extended into early autumn in Cyrodiil were cold and long-lived affairs, promising misery for man or beast caught out in it with no shelter.

I thought that I could do with some more exercise in any case, and my horse seemed to agree, being as lively as she was; so I decided to push on to the small village of Weye, which was still some miles distant, and the first true independent settlement in the area around the Imperial City.

A light drizzle was already falling when I finally reached Weye, about an hour or two after leaving the Imperial City. Grey clouds scudded high above, as the wind, strengthening already began to drive the rain before it.

I pulled up in front of the Wawnet Inn, the small, squat-looking two storey hostelry that mostly catered to west-bound travellers from the City, and paid the ostler to see that my horse was safely housed in the inn's stables, with a little extra for her hay and some grain mash, then unsaddled her and removed my pack and the saddlebags. I then entered the inn proper, and not a moment too soon, because the rain finally came bucketing down, as it had threatened to all afternoon.

Nerussa the publican was her usual enthusiastic self about wines. She queried me if I'd seen any of the rare Shadowbanish wine she was still missing from her extensive collection. When I admitted that I hadn't been in Cyrodiil since our last meeting, making it impossible to look for the vintage, she was distinctly disappointed, but perked up when I renewed my promise to look out for it, should my journey take me near any more Legion forts.

There were few customers in the inn tonight, so I enjoyed the relative peace and quiet of the common room, which was warm, and watched the rain lash at the windows. Dinner was served at around 6 in the evening, a choice of Colovian-style barley and rabbit stew with rye bread, or mushroom and creamed rice with honey glazed carrots.

I went up to bed at around ten of the watch, hoping to gain an early start in the morning. Listening to the wind and rain whistle through the thatch, I wondered how Clesyne was doing, and whether or not she'd found our man by now. Snuggling down under the blankets, which were warm, if a tad scratchy, I shut my eyes and went to sleep.

* * *

The weather had not improved greatly when I awoke the next morning, alas. The skies were still grey and drizzling, but at least the thunder and lightning had tapered off.

I was not fond of the weather conditions either, but the sooner I got to Clesyne, the sooner things would be settled and we could browbeat Sal into letting us off on a vacation of sorts.

I entered the stables and looked for my horse, which was in one of the end stalls. It seemed she knew me already, because she whickered as I drew near. I patted her nose and gave her a bit of carrot, which she delicately nipped from between my finger with a satisfied snort. I indulged myself and stroked her velvety nose one more time, and scritched her ears, before entering the stall to check her over and saddle up.

Leaving Weye behind, I continued out onto the Red Ring Road, so called because it encircled the area surrounding Lake Rumare and the Imperial City, as well as the outlying settlements and villages in its influence. My goal here was to make for where it met the Green Road, which stretched away south and west along the Niben Bay towards Leyawiin. At the rate I could take my horse, I estimated it would be another day or two before I hit that meetpoint, assuming that the weather did not turn absolutely foul and force me to hole up somewhere in a lean-to.

Still, it wasn't raining heavily yet, and the light drizzle was almost like a cool mist, if rather a heavy one that made seeing into the distance somewhat difficult. There were worse weathers to be travelling in.

I amused myself by trying to decide on a name for my horse; a passing Watchman eyed me rather dubiously, probably wondering what the Breton woman riding past him was doing, talking out loud to herself. "I can't just keep name you 'horse'. I'll call you… 'Chestnut'? No, that's just uncreative — Clesyne would laugh herself sick. How about 'Amber'? Do you think it sounds too grand? Or maybe 'Rosie', or 'Bonnie' — ?" My horse continued on at the smooth, mile-eating jog she'd dropped into not long after we left Weye.

"I really should've asked the stablehands what they called you, girl. I'm afraid your new mistress isn't the best with names." A horsey snort greeted that admission, even as I slowed her pace to a brisk walk. We'd been riding for a solid two hours, judging by the sun's position through the clouds; it would be a good idea to stop soon for a short break to rest my back and thighs, and some water and grazing for my horse. I recalled there was a small spring nearby, which would serve admirably.

The spring announced its presence in a clearing just off the road with a cheery blurble of moving water. I dismounted, and slid the saddlebags off my mare, rummaging about for the dried biscuits and a waterskin. I then led my horse over to the runoff from the spring, and tethered her securely to a nearby tree. I left her with enough slack so she could drink and crop at the grass, which was long and just beginning to turn a faded yellow-green.

I stretched and walked about the small clearing, working out the kinks and restoring feeling to my back and hindquarters, which were just starting to feel mildly sore. Sitting down under the same tree I'd tied my horse to, I munched on the biscuits and then took a long pull of water, stale, warmed and tasting a little of the leather skin it'd been in.

The sun came out from the clouds it'd hid behind most of the day, and the woodland clearing, still damp from the rain sparkled in its beaming light. I stared idly at one large drop of rainwater, trembling like a large liquid diamond, hanging on a wayward blade of grass. Plop!

"Heya, horse. How about I call you Crystal, hmm?" I asked the red mare, who had wandered back into my reach, and was now contentedly munching on the grass she could reach, flanks gleaming in the sunlight. A nicker was all the answer I got.

"Crystal it is, then." I grinned and reached up to pat her flank, only to stiffen. Crystal's ears were pricked up, twitching; her muscles under my hand were tense and quivering, obviously ready to bolt. Cautiously, I kept close to Crystal, trusting her bulk to shield me from the sight of whatever might be approaching. I worked to quickly untether her, even as I slowly loosened and drew my sword from where it was stowed with the saddlebags.

"This one suggests you drop your weapon if you value your life," the Khajiit bandit rasped from across the clearing. The male, young but quite tall for his species and form, had an arrow nocked, aimed and ready to fire in my direction.

Well, _shit_.

"Can't we discuss tt-this ll-like rational beings?" _Stall, stall, stall. Think faster, Arliene, think!_

"Khajiit thinks we already are. You have your sword, I have this arrow. If you wish to see which moves faster, Khajiit is ready to oblige you."

That… wasn't helpful in the slightest. He seemed like a talker, though. Perhaps I'd lose my money and some other things, but it might be possible to negotiate leaving me enough to work with, particularly my horse. "How about I put down my sword, you put down that bow and arrow, and we discuss what you want?"

"What Khajiit wants is very simple. Khajiit wants your money and your goods. Whether or not you die in the process, this one does not care."

Wonderful. Just my luck to meet this joker off the road too, where we were out of sight of the Watch patrols. Crystal was growing restive, sensing the tension in the air that crackled between me and my would-be robber.

"All right ttth-then. I'm ppp…putting down my weapon now, see?" Suiting action to words, I set the drawn blade carefully on the ground and backed away a little from it, watching the cat-man's aim all the while, wary of his movements as he came forward, bow now relaxed but his arrow still at the ready. He didn't look like one of those who were addled by skooma, something that I knew happened rather frequently in Elsweyr; but one never did know.

I kept my hand on Crystal's flank, both as a reassurance, and as part of a wild idea that had just occurred to me…

"Mind she-shea… p-putting up your weapon, friend?" I was deliberately casual. "You're scaring my horse, and she doesn't take well to being scared."

The Khajiit snorted. "Does the smooth-skin take this one for a fool? One did not leave his mother's teat the day before yesterday!"

"I agree. It's too bad, you really shouldn't have left your mother," I nodded amiably at his enraged face, even as I ducked behind Crystal and slapped her withers to get her to leap forward. She responded beautifully, bearing down on the bandit at high speed in her fear, forcing him to roll aside, or get trampled as she fled towards the road.

 _Twang!_ I ducked out of reflex, before realising he wasn't shooting at _me_. The Khajiit bastard was aiming at my horse, damn him! If he lamed her, or managed to kill her… I ran, picking up a large pebble and threw it at him.

Missed. Fuck!

The throw wasn't completely useless — got him on the head, ha! The furbag yowled, letting his bow drop, blood already beginning to flow. He charged me, growling. I ran, dropping to the ground to avoid a wild slash to my back, rolling the last few feet to reach my sword, back on my feet just in time to up and block the angry slash of claws and long knife headed towards my face. The whistle and rush of air his claws made as they streaked past made me blink and backpedal in a hurry.

We traded blows, his long knife against my sword. Slash, thrust, parry, dodge— too close fuck! And then I blinked, finding myself disarmed. I jumped on him, and we wrestled over and on the ground, slipping on the wet grass, rolling over and over trying to pin the other down for a killing stroke. I was quick, but the Khajiit had more mass, was very quick himself, with more reach; and his lethally sharp claws meant he had a weapon even after I forced his knife out of his hand. Gods, if only— the backup dagger in my boot!

Just like that, it was over; pinned under the bandit, his claws at my neck as I choked for air. Gods rot him, and myself most of all, for letting him catch me off-guard in the first place. Being slowed from the headache attack of a few days ago was no excuse. I'd been sloppy, and I was going to die for it.

I looked him in the eyes, this young Khajiit male, who'd proved a wily and smart fighter. What a waste of potential he represented. "Finish it." For the first time in our encounter, those large golden eyes grew uncertain.

If I were going to die, I had rather it be quick, and not this drawn-out waiting lark with my heart thumping in my ears. Waiting around is for cows, sheep and rich people. "Go on! What're you waiting for, an invite?" Still the hesitance, the lack of claws or knife slicing into my skin —

I wondered — surely not, and yet — perhaps…

"You've — never actually — done ttt-this before — have you? Killed s-someone?" Khajiit and Argonian expressions are renowned for being difficult for humans and mer to interpret, but I knew my words had hit home. He was young, and our verbal spar from earlier had told me that this was very much still an overconfident youngling I was dealing with: Any other bandit on these roads would have shot me dead while I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings, and then been gone long since, my corpse left for the crows. This was no time to lose focus, though, not with sharp claws pricking my skin. The growing lack of air was also a concern.

"Khajiit has killed before, men and women, soft-skins like you!" Nice try at bravado, but I _knew_ he was bluffing.

"You've sstolen — maybe you've sack people, but I don't tt-think you've killed — anyone, ever. Your hands and claws wouldn't — aah! — be s-shaking so much if you had." I winced, hearing my cracking voice rise sharply into a squeak as his hand spasmed. The claws nicked the side of my neck a little, enough to sting. A warm trickle started down the side of my neck.

I tried for as persuasive a tone I could produce, dredging up what I'd learned from watching Clesyne cajole and persuade merchants, truculent clients and the like. "Your hands haven't got blood on them yet. Don't start now."

The young Khajiit bandit was obviously conflicted, and I breathed very shallowly as I waited to see if I would live, or die on those sharp claws. Finally, I felt his claws retract. I tried not to let my relief show too obviously, though my harsh breathing was out of my control, as he moved off me, making it easier to draw in a full breath, and another.

I sat up, rubbing at my neck and wiping off my fingers on the grass, the blood already drying as I eyed the would-be highwayman. The Khajiit retreated to a distance of about twenty yards away, deliberately not looking in my direction.

"Tt-thhank you," I called out in his direction. I meant it. He didn't have to let me go; he could've made the jump to murderer right then. I thought it best he not get any more ideas along those lines, and resolved to be polite.

All I had in return was a glare, though.

"You're still alive. Now get lost!" I could see how it was; his pride had been sorely pricked. Now that I wasn't in immediate danger of dying, I actually felt sorry for the bugger. First things first though: I needed to see where Crystal had ended up. I devoutly hoped that she hadn't been terrified enough to have run off far enough I couldn't find her again.

Luckily for me, or perhaps not so much luck as it was good training, Crystal had stopped fairly close by down the road, and all my things were still safely on her back. A bit skittish at first, I spent a good half an hour calming her down before I deemed her calmed enough from her earlier experience, and she allowed me to lead her back to the clearing without protest. She did snort and grow uneasy as we entered the clearing again, particularly around the Khajiit, who was also watching us.

I led Crystal back to the tree she'd been tethered to previously, and began checking her feet over for any injuries or other problems while she drank thirstily from the spring. I found no signs of injury or loose stones in her hooves, for which I was very grateful.

The Khajiit was still looking at me every so often, rather sullen. Well, it wouldn't do for him to have second thoughts. He was a good fighter, obviously not bad with a sword, and very skilled in hand to hand techniques. I didn't want him to hang around still angry with me — I'd had enough of bruises and scratches and cuts from our earlier fisticuffs.

I went through my saddlebags and found what I was looking for: the fresh honeyed sweetrolls I'd bought as a treat for myself from the Wawnet Inn this morning. My new Khajiit acquaintance could probably do with something to sweeten his disposition, after all.

I walked right up to him, which surprised him; his claws flicked out in reflexive defence. I broke off an end of the roll I was holding, and put it in my mouth, chewed and swallowed; then held out the remainder to him.

"Fresh honey sweetrolls, baked just t-this morning. I solemnly swear I haven't drugged or poisoned them." I tossed the roll gently in his direction, and he picked it out of the air without thinking. "There's a few left here, if you want mm-more after you're done. You're welcome."

I went back over to where Crystal was, and sat down, deliberately turning my back to him while making sure he could see me — and that I hadn't fallen over frothing or unconscious from poison.

I heard him come up from behind me; somewhat unusual considering that Khajiit were capable of being silent enough to sneak up on a deer at 40 paces, and routinely did so to everybody they met. "This one would have robbed you, and tried to kill you. So why are you being so kind to this one?" He sounded genuinely puzzled.

I turned about to face him and looked up, squinting against the sun as I answered him. "You're young. Desperate enough to flip to robbing people on the highways. Stupid enough to t-try it without being hardened enough to kill." I shrugged. "I remember being that young and desperate once."

"But not stupid?" The Khajiit's rasp had a hint of mocking laughter in the midst of his curiosity.

"I never said that I wasn't stupid back then," I smiled back at him. "Stupid some other way, yes." I patted the ground in front of me. "Come and sit down. You'll give me a neck pain otherwise trying to t-talk to you."

The Khajiit snorted, but did as I'd bade him. "This one thanks you for the sweetroll. It has been some time since this one had anything so good to eat now." His face was wistful as he eyed the pile of rolls on the cloth next to me.

I set the bundle between the both of us. "Take what you will of these, friend." I watched as he devoured one roll, then another, but stopped at the last. Young, and hungry. Now that I had the leisure and presence of mind to observe him at close range, I could see that his face was thin, raw-boned; obviously he had not been eating all that regularly.

I decided to be blunt, figuring I might get a straight answer from the cat-man. "You're young, strong and a good fighter. Why are you out here robbing people, when you could make a better coins in the Fighter's Guild, or escorting caravans?" He blinked, not understanding, one ear twitching towards me. I repeated my question, slower this time, more careful with my pronunciation.

The Khajiit hissed. "This one came from Ne Quin-al — what you call Anequina in your tongue that is hard to speak — in the train of a caravan master of that city. One did not like that service, so one left him and went out looking for other work. However, this one found that Cyrodiil, for all it is the heart of the Septim Empire and boasts of being the home of all races, does not like Khajiit much, no." He shook his head, the rings in his left ear tinkling faintly with the motion.

"This one but took what he had needed from that caravan master; the caravan master was Khajiit, and with this one being Khajiit too, you would think he understood the needs of a clan-mate in these lands. That was my mistake," his teeth bared in a grin that had less of laughter than it did of anger about it, "the caravan master accused one of taking what does not belong to him, so now the Imperial Watch tries to arrest me on sight if I try to go into a town. Khajiit wants to go home. He misses the warm sands of the desert and the sugar in his food, where beautiful Ta'agra lilts in the air instead of your barbarian language. He cannot do so while he has no money and his belly is empty, and he cannot earn gold while the Watch tries to arrest him everywhere he goes. So…" The Khajiit shrugged, rather philosophical about the whole situation.

I nodded. "So you're stuck here with no money to pay your fines and go home, then?"

"Khajiit has been living off rabbits, deer, fruits and wild berries; he also sneaked food from travellers' camps, when he finds them. Those have been growing fewer and fewer however, and the snows grow closer. This one does not like the cold without a roof or tent over his head, that he does not."

"If I were you, I'd go find an Ayleid ruin to explore — there's a couple around this area, you know? They usually have things worth sale to collectors in them; and if you're lucky, they won't be occupied by other bandits already. Why not try your luck there? You might get full to be able to pay off your fines. Unless you're telling me you've got a really high p-price on your head?"

"This one… may have been seen running away, a time or two," the Khajiit admitted, rubbing an ear nervously.

I sighed. Divines, had I ever been quite so young and rash as this cat was turning out to be? "Your clan mother must have despaired of you when you were still in Anequina," I muttered.

"My clan mother may have commented before that she was sure I was a kit of Merrunz's get, yes," he agreed mildly.

"Take my word and go loot some dead Ayleids, not live travellers. You live longer that way, and still get as much action out of it." I wrapped up the last of the sweet rolls in its cloth and handed it to him. "If it comes down to it, serving jail time in the winter months will get you fed and out of the weather, will it not?"

"Khajiit would still prefer not to have to go to jail at all," he remarked with some asperity. "Khajiit does not like being shut away from the sun and winds. He had rather stay away from the Watch and towns. This one admits it is proving troublesome however."

"Better make sure you can sneak past the Watch and get your stuff — not thief! — to a merchant quickly, so you can pay off your fines then. Though if your bounty is that high by now, going to jail might be less troublesome."

"This one will take his chances as S'rendarr sends them," the Khajiit muttered. He didn't seem enamoured of my ideas, though he could hardly be blamed for it. Jail time for who knew how long, against clearing ruins that were probably infested with bandits, who wouldn't take kindly to another bandit trying to get into their base of operations. Neither option was appealing, in all likelihood.

"Going home will be worth it, believe me." I hadn't been in his exact situation before, but I fancied I knew personally a little of what it was like to be unable to return home. I stood up and moved to check on the saddlebags, checking the saddle girth, cinching it tight to make sure it wouldn't slip loose with me still in the saddle.

"You are leaving?" The Khajiit seemed surprised. Perhaps he thought I was going to camp there for the rest of the evening? I certainly wouldn't; sure he seemed like a decent sort, once you got past the attempted robbery and possible murder: but I was not going to tempt his better nature any further by camping near where he could slip his hands into my bags. Besides, I'd wasted enough time here already.

"I have a sister waiting for me down south," I replied. "Her temper with me will be high if I don't come up when I'm supposed to." That brought on a chuckle.

"Farewell. May you walk always on warm sands." Despite my continued misgivings, I couldn't help but return his smile. What a charming rogue.

* * *

I left the Khajiit bandit at that spring sometime around 4 hours after noon; as soon as I was out of sight, I rode Crystal hard to clear a good distance between us and the earlier campsite, crossing the first of two bridges across the White Rose River. By the time I stopped to let her rest again, already blowing hard, it was late evening and the first stars were out in the sky.

I made camp for the night well off the road, within sight of the ancient doomstone named for the sign of the Tower. The distant circle of stones brought back recollections of lectures at the Arcane University, what felt like a lifetime ago now.

I'd never really been one for lectures though, and I barely remembered anything from my mandatory classes dealing with the stones, mostly thanks to the lecturer who'd held that particular class. The Mage Scholar, one Plumbeus Ampullor, or "Old Leadenwater", as we apprentices used to refer to him, delivered all his talks, no matter how fascinating the subject, in a deadly dull intonation that was dry as sawdust, and as effective at choking any interest in the subject at hand. No one ever asked him anything in the allotted question time after the end of a lecture, because no one was ever awake for it. Needless to say, the grades from his examinations were amongst the lowest every year.

In any case, replaying the sound of his voice, even only in memory, was still a sovereign remedy for sleeplessness; I fell asleep much quicker than usual that night.

The next morning, I woke up wishing for a warm bath, as I was starting to feel rather sore from the long hours of riding I'd been doing for the past two days. I checked my map and reckoned my location by the sun, and found I was now a fairly close ride from the village of Pell's Gate, which was some distance after the Old Bridge, a few miles ahead from my present location.

The village lay almost directly south in a straight line from the Imperial City, and was not far from the crossings where the Red Ring Road met the Green. I looked over my horse's condition; looked again at the sky, which was very much threatening another heavy downpour, and decided that a night at an inn was in order, despite the cost.

In spite of my hopes and Crystal's gallant attempt at more speed, the skies opened up with a cold deluge before we rode at a slow pace through the main entrance to Pell's Gate. The village itself was not a large one, having only some two dozen wood-framed houses, with their households, and a small sized inn; its main income derived from resupplying the people and caravans that travelled between the Imperial City and the southern parts of Cyrodiil.

I stabled Crystal myself, with hands that felt more like ice blocks than limbs — here at the _Sleeping Mare Inn_ , there was no dedicated ostler who knew his business, only a new and very green stable boy who didn't look as though he could tell oats from barley grain. Still, he managed well enough once I instructed him on the proper way to care for and rub down a horse that had taken a soaking from bad weather — meaning plenty of rugs and blankets, a stall that was snug and warm, a good brushing and a firm rubdown with braided straw, and extra hay in the feeder.

Once I was satisfied by my observations that the boy was doing as I'd told him, I then hurried back out into the bucketing rains. Arms over my head in a futile effort to keep the rain off, I fairly ran into the inn's common room, tracking rivulets of water and muck onto the sturdy, if roughly made flagstone floor and trying not to slip. The innkeeper, Candice Corgine hurried over with offers of warmed towels to dry myself with, and outright dismay at the muck and water I was freely dripping all over her clean floor.

It rained through the night, and kept on raining heavily well into the morning, and throughout the whole day and again into the night, with strong winds that blew the rain nearly sideways. Being shut indoors thanks to the weather, I was feeling restless and bored, and getting rather claustrophobic by the second day of rain, since the inn was small and cramped with rather low wooden ceilings and walls.

Apart from gossiping with Candice, there was nothing much to do in the inn. It wasn't so bad talking with her; the Breton innkeeper had no family around and thus was often lonely, and she had a fondness for tales of adventure and travel. Exchanging news with the regular patrons and transients was also a source of amusement. Still, too much of the same thing makes it boring, and those pastimes grew stale after the first morning. Otherwise I could spend my time sleeping, and eating the prepared meals, which were filling but rather bland, nothing to write home about. Candice mourned the fact that the Imperial cook just couldn't understand how to properly cook Breton-style dishes, a situation with which I commiserated.

There was little in the way of intellectual stimulation possible. What few books were on hand were useless to me. The inn had a thriving sideline in sales of potions, basic alchemical reagents and equipment, along with miscellaneous magickal bric-a-brac, but I wasn't in the mood for attempting any advanced alchemical experimentation either — the results of my experiments would probably result in Candice throwing me out onto the road into the rain. Her resources and usually good temper was already rather strained by the unusuallly large influx of travellers seeking shelter, and anything that disrupted the peace of her common room wouldn't win me any favours.

I prayed to Kynareth and asked her to speed the rains on their way elsewhere. Bravil was still two days' ride away, and that estimate might rise further if the extreme rain and winds had managed to wash out a section of the road or otherwise make it impassable. The main roads were well maintained and patrolled by the Legion, but all the same they had been known to give way in part in some lower-lying areas, and there was always the possibility of fallen trees blocking the road that I would have to ride around.

I stared out the window at the grey skies and watched water sheet down the cloudy glass, and wondered how Clesyne was faring. Was she safely indoors? Or perhaps it was raining too, but not quite as heavily in Bravil. Maybe the weather there was sunny and not a drop of rain to speak of. If that were so, lucky her.

Outside, the interminable rain went on and on.


End file.
